


Breathing In The Moment

by torakowalski



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Movie(s), Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One minute, Clint is stepping through the doorway into the lounge, the next Pepper’s voice says, “Oops,” from high above him, and Christmas explodes all over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing In The Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [harborshore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Breathing In The Moment （呼吸此刻）](https://archiveofourown.org/works/668735) by [wasabi_31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wasabi_31/pseuds/wasabi_31)



> For Vee, who asked for the Avengers' first Christmas together.

All Clint wants is a cup of coffee. He isn’t looking to get glitter-bombed, but that’s what happens.

One minute, he’s stepping through the doorway into the lounge, the next Pepper’s voice says, “Oops,” from high above him, and Christmas explodes all over his head.

Clint blinks red and gold glitter out of his eyes and glares up at her. Well, he tries to. Only a total asshole could glare at Pepper. Or, actually, not even one of those, since Tony never quite manages it either.

“Clint, I’m so sorry,” she says, jumping down from her step stool and reaching over to dust him off. 

“It’s cool, it’s fine,” Clint says, taking a step back, since there’s a lot of touching going on to his hair and his ears and his neck, and all those places are private.

“I’m so sorry.” She bites her lip, probably wanting to laugh. “I was just trying to jazz the place up a little.” She holds out a hand, indicating the rest of the room. “What do you think?”

Clint shakes his head so more glitter flies up and away, and takes a look around. The inside of the Tower looks like Macy’s Christmas department has branded itself in red and gold then exploded inside it.

“It’s very… Iron Man?” Clint tries.

Pepper rolls her eyes and huffs out a laugh. “Yes. Tony wouldn’t agree otherwise. I’m hoping he’ll just assume we’re celebrating him.”

Clint grins. “Yeah, probably.” He looks between her and the stool, the rows and rows of decorations that she’s yet to put up. He doesn’t want to get involved, but unfortunately a couple of people did try to bring him up right. “You want a hand?”

“I would love a hand, thank you,” Pepper says, smiling at him. She’s still smiling when she loads him up with more gold tinsel than anyone should ever own.

He’s pretty sure he’s doomed.

***

“Why not?” Natasha asks, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him. “You helped Pepper.”

“With some streamers, not a whole Christmas dinner. Anyway, how do you know that?” Clint asks, not looking up from his book. “Pepper said she wouldn’t tell.”

“Pepper lies when she thinks it’s for your own good,” Natasha says, shrugging, like that’s a philosophy she supports. Since Clint knows her, Clint already knows that it is.

Clint shrugs, still without looking at her. “Whatever. So I helped Pepper. That’s just because she’s nice and lets us live in her house. I wasn’t embracing the holiday spirit or anything.”

“Of course not.” Natasha sits down on his leg where it’s stretched along the bed, her ass compressing his knee cap in a way that kind of hurts. She puts her hand on the top of his book and pulls it down toward her until he can’t see the print anymore. 

Considering he hasn’t taken in any of the last twenty pages, he only puts up a token protest.

“So,” Natasha says, after he’s sighed and finally looked her in the eye. “We’re boycotting Christmas?”

Clint shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Nat, but I was trying to read.”

“About?” She turns the book around. “ _The Space Pirate and the Lost Heir_?”

Clint flips her off. “Hey, it’s a classic.”

“It’s bullshit,” she says and flings it over her shoulder.

“Hey,” Clint complains and doesn’t mention how many times he’s flung it at that same wall in disgust since plucking it out of Thor’s growing collection. Thor has a shitty taste in books.

“Stop hiding out here and come join in with everyone else,” Natasha says, folding her hands impatiently over her knee.

Clint isn’t sure if the fact that she’s asking him directly, rather than trying to manipulate him into it, means that she’s trying a new tactic or that she’s just given up on him.

“You want me to go out there and peel potatoes with Banner and roast parsnips with Steve, like the bullshit fake family Stark wants us to be?” Clint lies back on the bed and pulls his pillow over his face, blocking her out. “No.”

“Clint,” Natasha says softly. Clint ignores her. “Do you remember last year? You organised a secret Santa, even though half of us were on undercover missions, and you made Fury dress up as Santa Claus to hand out the gifts. You can’t tell me you don’t love Christmas.”

Clint drops the pillow so he can glare at her more effectively. “You know why I did all that,” he says.

He likes Christmas fine, but he made a big deal of it last year, because it was Phil’s first without either of his parents around and Clint wanted him to have a good time. (He also rigged the Secret Santa draw so that he was the one who pulled Phil’s name out the hat and gave him the final card for his Captain America collection.)

“Do you think he’d want you to be miserable this year?” Natasha asks sharply, not backing down when Clint sits up, glaring at her.

“Do not do that,” he says, getting right up in her face, because he’s decided that today is a day he’s okay with taking his life into his own hands. “Don’t try to guilt me into doing what you want by using him.”

Natasha shrugs, spreading her hands as though to say _it’s what I do_. Then she wrinkles her nose and reaches out, pushing his bangs back out of his eyes. He knows it’s an apology, but he’s smarting and miserable right now, so he jerks away. 

“Go back and have fun,” Clint tells her, meaning _please go? Please?_ “Don’t kill anyone with the potato peeler.”

“Please,” Natasha says, standing up. “If necessary, I could kill them with the potato.”

Clint almost manages a smile, letting her see it as a reward for trying to help him, even if he doesn’t want to be helped.

Natasha pats him smartly on the shoulder and lets herself out.

***

Obviously, because Clint is a contrary bastard, he feels lonely almost as soon as Natasha’s gone. He meant what he said though; he has no interest in celebrating the holidays when Phil’s gone. This thing Stark’s doing where he thinks he can make them into a family by pressing them together often enough isn’t going to work on Clint.

He wouldn’t have expected it to work on Natasha, either, but she seems pretty willing to be pressed.

Clint picks up his bow from the floor and grabs a handful of regular arrows, considers heading to the range for a second then vetoes that because he’ll be findable there. He takes the window instead, using the outside of the window frame to boost himself up onto the roof. 

This part of the tower is still all smashed up from Loki and the Chitauri, and the three billion workers who Stark hired to fix it up again have all gone home for the holidays. It’s kind of amazing how cathartic it is to stand on the edge of the tallest building in Manhattan and shoot an arrow through seven broken screen windows, right into the centre of the clock over what used to be Stark’s bar.

Clint could do this all day, _has_ sometimes, but he doesn’t get to today. He’s only put an arrow into one, two, and three o’clock on the clockface when JARVIS’s voice echoes up from speakers hidden in the walls.

“Patching Mr Stark through to you, Agent Barton,” he says, managing to sound both professional and apologetic.

“Ugh,” Clint says, but there’s nothing he can do.

“Barton.” Stark’s voice manages to boom out, despite the damage the speakers sustained in the battle. Also despite the fact that Clint sticks his boot over the nearest one and an arrow into the next closest.

“Sorry,” Clint says cheerfully. “No one’s home.”

“Barton, come down here and eat with us this second,” Stark says crossly. “I have a gift for you.”

Clint shudders to think what kind of gift Stark would find appropriate. It’s probably either a Maserati or a fluffy bit of mouldy pizza crust. Stark’s moods tend to fluctuate. “Aww, Stark, thanks, but I don’t want your cock.”

There’s a snort, which sounds like Bruce, which means that Clint’s on speaker. Whatever, Clint’s hilarious.

“Clint, please,” Steve’s voice joins in. “It would be great, if you’d come down. We’re all waiting on you.”

“Well, stop,” Clint says, even though it’s Steve and arguing with Steve is like arguing with a really stubborn puppy.

“Cliiiiiiint, come on, please? I’ve missed you!” Fuck, now that sounds like the Darcy kid from New Mexico. Since when was she coming? Clint guesses she probably tagged along with Jane, who Thor got Stark to send a private jet all the way to Norway for.

“You have not,” Clint argues. Then he sighs and puts down his bow. They’re just going to keep going on, if he doesn’t agree. He knows that; he doesn’t have to like it. “Fine. Fuck. But I’m not wearing a party hat.”

There are faint cheers in the background and Stark, the asshole, keeps the feed going the whole time Clint’s climbing back inside the Tower and riding down in the elevator so he can hear them all chattering happily.

“Okay,” Clint says, holding his arms wide when he arrives in the dining room that’s so massive, it can just about fit everyone. There are people everywhere, crowded around a giant table and sitting on chairs, step-stools and even a couple bean bags. 

It’s way too many people for Clint, and he wants to back up and find a place to hide, which means he has to make a big entrance, instead.

Thank god, there’s a seat free between Natasha and Pepper and opposite Bruce, so Clint throws himself down on that one and takes the beer Natasha puts in his hand.

“Four courses,” she says to him out of the corner of her mouth, “probably coffee after. Three hours, max.”

Clint nods slowly, breathing carefully. Okay, if she’s treating it like an op, then he can to. He is good at blending in under cover.

***

Sometime between the main course being cleared away and Stark saying something about dessert, Clint realises that he’s maybe having an okay time. He still doesn’t really know how to make conversation with anyone except Natasha, but they don’t seem to mind, and he manages a couple of decent conversations where no one looks at him with sad eyes or glances down at the ring on his finger.

It’s progress.

The only problem is that Clint’s not sure he _wants_ progress.

Of course, the point where Clint is starting to relax, is the point where Stark suddenly gets twitchy. He checks his phone a half-dozen times and starts making wilder and wilder toasts like he wants to distract everyone from something only he can see.

Clint looks around really carefully – and spots Natasha and Steve doing the same – but can’t work out what it might be.

“Tony?” Pepper asks, interrupting Stark when he tries to toast the breadmaker. “It’s time.” She shows him her own phone and Stark’s face goes soft with relief for a second before he switches back to manically disinterested.

“It’s time!” Stark agrees, clapping his hands together. He looks down the table, eyes zeroing in on Clint. “Barton, it’s time for your gift.”

Fuck, Clint hopes this isn’t going to be embarrassing. He’s especially worried, because Stark _never_ calls him by his name. It’s too much to hope that he’s just finally run out of famous archers.

“Is it sparkly?” Clint asks, raising his eyebrows. “I accept no less than twenty-four carat.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s worth more than that to you,” Stark says, then he smirks. “It’s in the elevator; go see for yourself.”

Clint really doesn’t want to, but everyone’s looking at him and, if it’s awful, he’s got a knife in his pocket and can probably nail Stark from the elevator without turning around.

The lights above the elevator are counting up to this floor and it chimes just as Clint reaches it. The door doesn’t open so, curious despite himself, Clint reaches out and hits the button.

The door glides open and –

There’s a gasp from around the table. Clint kind of hears it, kind of doesn’t.

\-- Phil’s standing in the elevator, caught in the middle of smoothing down his tie.

Clint can’t make his mouth form words, so he just stares. Phil straightens and catches Clint’s eye, smiling at him carefully.

“Merry Christmas?” Phil tries and Clint’s about to laugh hysterically, or maybe fall on the floor and cry, when the elevator doors get bored of standing open and try to close.

Clint slaps his palm on the side of the door so hard that it jolts back into place and even shakes the elevator frame a little bit.

Phil shakes his head at him, still smiling.

Clint swallows.

“How?” he asks. He steps into the elevator before Phil can’t answer, letting the door close behind him and ignoring the protesting groans from behind him.

Phil reaches for him as soon as he’s close enough, then hesitates, letting his hand hover just above Clint’s arm.

“Stark pulled some strings,” Phil says, “I pulled some strings, Fury pulled some strings.”

“I’m pretty sure we already tried all that,” Clint says. His voice won’t come out right, no matter how many times he clears his throat. 

He remembers standing in front of Fury’s desk and begging, pleading with him not to let the World Security Council disappear Phil. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had worked. They’d wanted Agent Coulson to stay dead, and Phil, inconveniently recovering at the time, had been the collateral damage.

Clint knew they’d given him a good new identity and a decent pension to live on, but knowing that really hadn’t helped Clint much over the last seven months of loneliness.

“We pulled harder,” Phil says. He’s dropped his smile. He’s just staring at Clint now; maybe he’s trying to take in every bit of Clint like Clint’s trying to take in every bit of him.

“You look good,” Clint says, doesn’t know what else to say. Phil does look good. Even more importantly, he looks _well_. Clint’s been remembering him as the ghost-white, battered man who he barely got to say goodbye to, but this here in front of him, this is _Clint’s_ Phil: solid and well and looking fucking dapper in his suit.

There are tiny, barely visible, green Christmas trees embroidered into the fabric of Phil’s black tie. For some reason, it’s that that breaks Clint, and he’s stumbling forward before he knows it, grabbing Phil by the shoulders.

Phil holds on just as tight, sliding his hands around to Clint’s back and pulling him close, closer, as close as he can go and then some more. Clint presses his face into Phil’s neck, breathing him in and blinking hard against the stinging behind his eyes.

“Oh my god,” he says to Phil’s collar then completely runs out of words.

Phil’s hands dig hard into Clint’s spine, clinging really, and he says, “Clint,” like he’s been waiting all his life to say it.

Clint pulls back just far enough to get his mouth on Phil’s. It’s almost like he’s forgotten how to kiss; everything feels new and terrifying and perfect.

Phil kisses back just as hard, sucking on Clint’s bottom lip and walking him backwards until Clint’s back hits the wall. He lifts a hand and presses it to Clint’s cheek and Clint gets a shock when he feels the hard press of cool metal brush his skin.

“Is that – ?” Clint breaks the kiss to grab Phil’s hand, turning it into the light. It’s not the ring Clint gave Phil – that one has a scratch all the way down one side from the Doombots they had to go fight half way through the wedding reception and is currently sitting in Clint’s bedside drawer – but it’s a good replica.

“I went out and bought myself another,” Phil says, with a shrug like that’s no big deal, like the WSC hadn’t decided that there was no space in Phil’s new identity for an awkwardly acrobatic husband. “If anyone asked, I said we were separated.”

That makes Clint clutch Phil’s hand harder than he meant to. “Well, that’s bullshit,” he says and then, because he hasn’t been able to for months, adds an apologetic, “sir,” to the end.

Phil smiles and doesn’t even roll his eyes like he used to. “No, technically it was true,” he says, looking so softly smug that Clint has to kiss him again.

And then again.

Clint’s heart is beating up in his throat, and his fingers are tingling weirdly. It’s like his body wants to switch itself back on after hibernating for so long, but he can’t let him do that just yet.

“How long are you back for?” he asks, dreading the answer because however long Phil says, it won’t be long enough.

Phil’s eyebrows pull together and Clint has to look away because, fuck, that means it’s bad news. Clint would almost rather Phil had never come home at all, if he has to go straight back to his life in the city Clint isn’t allowed to know, in the _state_ Clint isn’t allowed to know.

“No, Clint, look at me,” Phil says and grabs his chin. “I’m not going back.”

Clint holds his breath.

“I’m not,” Phil repeats. “I don’t care what the Council want and neither does Fury. We needed them onside for long enough for the Avengers to form properly, but now that you have, we don’t need them anymore.” He looks hard at Clint, his mouth flattening into a straight line. “Barton, really, did you really think I’d just leave you?”

Clint shakes his head. It’s possible his eyes are a bit wet. 

“Idiot,” Phil says and pulls Clint in, not for a kiss this time, but so that their foreheads are pressed together. “I swore never to leave you, didn’t I? I swore it in front of Natasha, so I really have no recourse.” 

Clint laughs helplessly and tangles his fingers in the back of Phil’s hair. “Damn right,” he says, hating the shake in his voice but deciding not to fight it, “you know she’d track you down and kill you.”

Phil shrugs one shoulder. “I’d deserve it,” he says, sounding content, and hums against Clint’s mouth when Clint pulls him forward.

They get ten really nice minutes of kissing and not much else, before someone starts banging on the door and Stark’s voice yells, “Are you fucking in my elevator? You better not be fucking in my elevator!”

Clint laughs, feeling Phil’s shoulders shake, and puts his mouth against Phil’s ear to whisper, “We really should fuck in his elevator.”

“Later,” Phil says, and he’s got to know what that, that promise that they have a _later_ , does to Clint.

“Why?” Clint shouts back. “Are you the only one who’s allowed to do that?”

“Damn right,” Stark says, but it’s less annoyed, more smug.

Phil straightens his shoulders and fixes the collar of Clint’s shirt for him. “We should get this over with, I guess,” he says.

Clint hovers his fingers over the buttons on the wall. “Or I could take us straight to my floor and we could stay there forever?”

“Very tempting,” Phil allows, but he reaches past Clint and hits the door open button instead.

“Spoilsport,” Clint mutters, but not managing a proper disgruntled tone.

Creepily, no one has moved from the table in the time Clint and Phil were in the elevator. Dessert has been served along with even more wine, but apparently that’s not distracting enough, because everyone jumps up from the table to greet Phil.

Clint slips his fingers through Phil’s and squeezes before everyone descends, promising himself that he won’t lose him again, then steps back to give people room.

Phil is good at glad-handing people, but even he sounds a bit flustered and confused by all the hugs and the questions, and the great pounding slaps that Thor drops on his back.

Clint grins and keeps his eyes fixed on Phil the whole time, barely glancing away when a hand squeezes his shoulder.

“You look happier,” Pepper says quietly, eyes tracking Phil as well. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you what the party was really for. Tony made me promise and you know what he’s like when one of his surprises gets spoiled.”

“Yeah,” Clint says even though he doesn’t, not really. He’s been trying really hard _not_ to get to know any of the other Avengers too well. He’s maybe been kind of an asshole. “Hey, I’m sorry, I’ve been kind of a shitty houseguest, huh?”

“No,” Pepper says immediately, but then she’s the CEO of a massive company; she knows the polite thing to say. She nods toward the crowd of happily laughing Avengers and Honorary Avengers. “They’ve all been so worried about you, you know, but no one knew how to help.”

Clint shakes his head, grinning as he watches the top of Phil’s head disappear under one of the hideous party hats that Darcy brought along. Stark is right in the middle, telling a dubious-looking Thor of his battles to reclaim Phil’s soul, and Natasha is rolling her eyes at him, while Bruce smiles at everyone, and Steve shakes Phil’s hand, making him blush.

“Pretty sure this is all I needed,” Clint says and means it.

/End


End file.
